Molly
After Jamie heads back to his apartment to get ready for our dinner date, I freshen up and change out of my jeans and into a comfortable skirt and blouse. At five minutes before the appointed time, I walk down the short hallway and knock on his door.
I hear a soft bark from inside, and then the door opens.
Holy crap, he dressed for the occasion. His white button-down shirt, open at the collar, reveals the strong column of his neck and provides a tantalizing peek at his chest. The crisp white shirt contrasts nicely with his tanned skin and rich, auburn hair and beard. His sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up, exposing strong forearms. For the first time, I notice the light dusting of freckles on his arms. He looks amazing.
He traded his faded jeans for a pair of black trousers that sit deliciously at his lean hips, and instead of his scuffed hiking boots, he’s wearing a pair of polished black loafers. His beard has been freshly trimmed, and I detect a faint whiff of expensive men’s cologne. The scent alone makes my insides quiver. Even through his dark glasses, I can sense the intensity of his expression.
Oh, my God, this is for real. We’re on a date. A guy doesn’t shower and shave, dress up, and put on cologne unless his goal is to impress someone.
“Molly, come in.” He moves back to make way for me.
“Hi.” As I step inside, I’m immediately struck by the mouth-watering aromas of simmering tomatoes and Italian spices, warm yeasty bread, and garlic. On top of that, I detect something sweet and coffee-scented. Tiramisu, maybe? I can’t believe he’s gone to this much trouble for me. And I can’t believe he put all this together so quickly.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Now I have to wonder if that sentiment applies to women as well. Why wouldn’t it? It’s not so much about the food as it is about the fact that he’s gone to so much effort to prepare a nice meal for me.
I glance around his apartment, which is surprisingly tidy. I guess I was expecting something a little more bachelor pad. The chocolate brown sofa looks very comfy, as does the matching recliner.
The table is already set for two with white china plates with gold trim and two tall wine glasses. There’s a large salad bowl on the table, and a bottle of red wine on ice. There’s even a candle centerpiece on the table. Good grief, how did he manage all this on his own, and so quickly?
The timer on the stove goes off, announcing dinner.
“Perfect timing,” he says, as he closes the door behind me. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am. I’m starving.” And as I take him in, I realize it’s not just food I’m hungry for. I’m starved for this. For something that feels an awful lot like coming home.
“Have a seat and help yourself to the salad,” he says. “There’s a bottle of red wine chilling on the table. Why don’t you pour us glasses while I get the lasagna out of the oven?”
* * *
The meal is perfect. Lasagna, fresh garlic bread, salad, and wine. And for dessert… Tiramisu. He couldn’t have planned this any better. We enjoy a long, leisurely meal, and while we eat, we talk about everything from Shane and Beth’s painting to the new book Jamie’s working on to how Gus is progressing with his training.
“I’d love to read one of your books,” I tell him. “Are they published under your name?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll download one tonight and start reading it.”
He fights a grin, and I could swear he’s blushing. “Please, don’t feel like you have to. They’re military thrillers – that may not be your thing. Don’t force yourself to read them if you’re not really interested.”
“Are these stories autobiographical?”
He shrugs. “Bits and pieces of them are, yes. The overall plots are purely fictional, and the bad guys are made up. Even though I’m out of the service, I’m still bound to a certain level of confidentiality. I use what I can and make up the rest.”
“So, by reading your books, I’ll get an idea of what you did in the military?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll definitely read one, because I want to know what it was like for you in the service.” I take a bite of my delicious dessert, moaning with pleasure as the coffee-flavored cream melts on my tongue. “Jamie, this meal is amazing. You outdid yourself.”
He sets his wine glass on the table and reaches for the bottle. “Thanks. I may not be able to do everything I want, but I can manage a lot with enough practice.”
“I can see that. But you don’t have anything to prove, you know. Not to me, certainly. Not to anyone.”
He faces me directly as I talk, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was looking right at me. But those dark glasses are a constant reminder of what he’s lost… something so precious.
He deftly pours himself a second glass of wine and holds the bottle out to me. “Would you like another glass?”
“No, thanks.” I chuckle. “One’s my limit. I’m not much of a drinker.”
* * *
After he finishes his wine, he invites me to sit on the sofa and relax while he cleans off the table. Of course, there’s no way I’m going to sit and watch while he does all the work.
“I’d rather help you,” I say.
I carry the dishes to the sink, and he rinses them off and puts them in the dishwasher. It’s incredibly domestic.
My relationship with Todd was never anything like this. After dinner, he’d disappear to the living room to watch television while I cleaned up. He never once offered to help me in the kitchen. The one and only time I asked him to help, early in our marriage, he’d done it so grudgingly that I never asked again. Going into it, I thought marriage was supposed to be a partnership, but that ideal got quickly squashed.
When we’re done cleaning up after dinner, Jamie closes the dishwasher door and dries his hands on a hand towel.
He leans against the kitchen counter and faces me. “Thank you for helping.”
I’m tempted to say something clever about how we make a good team, but I’m afraid to go there. That’s a slippery slope that I’m not willing to risk. “Thank you for a wonderful meal. You do make a mean lasagna.”
He laughs. “You’re easy to please.” He pushes away from the counter and heads toward me. “Would you like to sit down and relax?”
The thought of sitting with him on the sofa makes my heart race. There wouldn’t be anything relaxing about it. I’d be a nervous wreck. I’m not sure I’m ready for this – for this kind of intimacy. For a new relationship. “It’s getting late,” I say, chickening out. “I’d probably better get going.”
I regret the words as soon as I say them.
His smile falls, but he nods nonetheless. “Sure. I’ll bet you’re tired.” He reaches for my hand. “Thank you for coming over this evening. I loved having you here. Just let me grab my cane, and I’ll walk you home.”
“How many steps is it from my apartment to yours?” I ask as we walk down the hallway.
He smiles. “Twenty-six.”
When we reach my door, Jamie waits patiently while I locate my keys and unlock my door. Thankfully, there are no post-it notes stuck to my door this time. Maybe my pleas have finally gotten through to Mrs. Powell.
“Thanks again for dinner,” I say, opening my door. I’m nervous all of a sudden, wondering if he’ll kiss me again.
“Molly?” Jamie runs his hand down my arm until he reaches my hand. “I enjoyed this evening.” And then he cups my face with both hands and brushes his thumbs across my cheeks. He frowns. “God, I wish I could see your face.”
The wistful nature of his remark makes my chest hurt, because no matter how much I might want to, I can’t give him that. “You’re not missing much,” I say, laughing to lighten the moment. “It’s passable, as far as faces go.”
He smiles. “I still wish I could see it.” Slowly and deliberately, with his hands cradling my face, he leans down and touches his lips to mine. I wouldn’t even call it a kiss – it’s more just a quick meeting of our lips, something even friends might do. “Sleep well, Molly.”
The next thing I know, I’m standing inside my apartment, closing the door and locking it, and Jamie is gone.
Charlie rubs eagerly against my ankles, meowing plaintively.
“Come on, buddy,” I tell him, scooping him up into my arms. I carry him to the kitchen and open a can of cat food.
In a daze, I head to my bedroom to undress, my head swirling with emotion. What just happened tonight, and why do I feel like everything has changed?
* * *
That night, I dream about Jamie.
I leave my apartment in the middle of the night and walk down the hall toward his. When I try the door knob, it’s unlocked, and I let myself in. All the lights are off, and it’s dark.
Dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt, I head down the hallway to the last door on the left. Moonlight streams through the sheer curtains, illuminating the man sleeping on the bed. He’s shirtless, lying with nothing but a sheet covering him from the waist down. His chest is a work of art, with well-defined muscles and dusted with a light sprinkling of dark hair.
Even in the dim lighting, I can make out the dusky discs of his flat nipples. His arms are muscular, too, his biceps and triceps well-defined even in sleep. I crawl into bed with him, and he stirs restlessly as I disturb the mattress. In his sleep he reaches for me, pulling me down to cuddle against him, wrapping his arm around me as I settle against his body.
“I’d give anything to see your face,” he murmurs in his sleep.
I know it’s just a dream, but his arms around me feel so good. The heat of his body and the male scent of him teases my senses. I can’t help relaxing into his arms and nuzzling the skin stretched tautly over his bicep.
When I awake in the morning I hold the dream to me for as long as I can, until it starts to fade away, as all good dreams do. In its place is a comforting warmth that settles low in my belly.